Or, Can't. Stop. Photo. Blogging. Sorry for the tedium, but some things are just better left to pictures. (Click any of them to enlarge, if you like.) Had a million errands to run today, consisting largely of a huge excursion to Wal-Mart, during which, you will be proud to note, I did not Freak Out. But I have to show you what I saw there, because...well, I can't purge it from my own mind any other way than by polluting yours. First of all, let me assure you that I am not a Wal-Mart snob (and yes, we all hate it, don't we? but it really can't be avoided here). Really, I'm not. But instead of going to my usual "Super" Wal-Mart today, I went to the closer, but smaller and more rural store in the other town of the two between which our new place is sandwiched.
It's a whole different world, the small Wal-Mart. I couldn't find anything, and got close enough to the precipice of the Freak Out that I left without several things on my list. I will get them later at the "proper" Wal-Mart in the other town (and nope, there's no K-Mart, Target, or anything else in either town). So while I was wandering around the garden section looking for food for my newly acquired koi-pond fish (apparently there are 30-40 fish in there; can you believe it?), I stumbled across a large display of what, to me, was a disturbing item, given the amount of hard-won shelf-space devoted to it. The buyers for the store obviously expect it to be a huge seller. I mean, I know this is Arkansas, but...OK. Remember Billy Bass? The stupid plastic animated fish on a wall-mount who would flop and sing "Take Me To The River?" Well, this item was along those lines: The package reads, "DIGGER DOG--He digs! He scratches! He passes gas!" And Bella really, really wanted one. Right then. When she heard the farting. *le sigh.* Of course, I will be sending this gift to every Jack Russell terrier-owner I know.
And now for some of my favorite things about our new location:The Squirrel Bridge. We can't figure out anything else it could be. It's about 2 feet long by 10 inches wide, and leads from a tree in the front pasture over the fence into the terraced garden that surrounds the house. Anybody else have any ideas about this structure? It's like a deer stand for gnomes, but it faces our home, which would be troubling if that were the case.This is just a small part of the huge, crowded goat farm you have to pass to get to my house. It smooth cracks me up, and there's almost always a loose goat or two in the road, or some lounging roosters or something. I probably wouldn't laugh as hard, though, if I were the owner of this property,which is slap next door, quite neat and proper, and by neighbors' accounts, was there first. Ouch.Also? At the local Chinese joint? Wings from chickens OR DRAGONS, people.
AND FINALLY (audible sighs of relief coming through my modem, I swear I can hear them), the latest in the My Husband Is A Macho, Macho Man saga. He was out at Home Depot, picking up supplies for Manly Man Projects, because he can in fact do anything (except make coherent analogies), and called here to see if I needed anything. Sweet, huh? And how did I repay that? Well, I sent him next door to Kroger for Monistat 1-Day Treatment (Male readers, you do not have to avert your eyes, it won't get graphic, I promise. I will say, though, that I never had a yeast infection in my LIFE until I had a baby. Thanks, Bella!). He never flinched, because that's the kind of guy he is. Uber-secure in his masculinity, and not daunted in the least by the task of picking up feminine hygeine products. So, hey, here's some useful information--call it a public service:See that little plastic bar-code thingy on the right side of the box? That, my friends, is a SECURITY TAG. On Monistat. The kind of security tag that sets off loud alarms if you try to take it out the door of the huge, highly-populated store, if the checker doesn't remove it. Which, as you can see, she didn't. So Alex had to show his receipt to the Monistat Cop at the front of the store to prove he'd paid for the yeast infection medication. And he didn't even TELL me this story until hours later, because he hardly thought anything of it! THAT'S a real man, ladies and gentlemen! I myself would have been mortified, because as a (somewhat) proper Southern Lady, I like to pretend that I do not have sex, indigestion, body odor, bowel movements, or flatulence--much LESS yeast infections, which surely must indicate some sort of character flaw.
So what's up with the security tag on the Monistat? Are there really that many criminally-minded, candida albicans-overrun women loosed on this part of the world? Is it a black market item? We use it in dogs' ears sometimes when they get yeast infections in there, but I can't really think of any other "off-label" uses for it, unless it's like the cough medicine/methamphetamine thing, and punk kids are now manufacturing a topical form of some ecstasy-like drug using Monistat as a key ingredient.
Oh, man...I was SO wasted on yeast-balls last night!